The Black Velvet Band
by Endiku
Summary: Chapter IX: Starving, exhausted and freezing; in this the final chapter Lord Deauvin finally confronts Morrigan and the God-Child in the Frostback Mountains. Read now before the story forever slides off the front-page and into the oblivion of ! Or check out the single-chapter novella The Annulment of Lydes. Or do both. Neither story will include griffins.
1. Chapter 1

**The Black Velvet Band: Chapter I**

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The red haired bard gazed into the darkness and listened to the silence. The surrounding trees were barely distinguishable, but the stars above shone brightly. The others would not be back for several hours yet and she had decided to stay awake and wait for them, sleep she judged too risky despite the apparent calm.

This wake and wait did not bother her as one might think it might, as a matter of fact she enjoyed the solitude, she had been looking forward to it for some time now. This because it would allow her to indulge in a favorite pastime of hers that there just did not seem to be much time for these days.

Some time ago the bard had, during their investigations, partaken in the story of young Lord Celon Deauvin and his fall from land and dignity, once of House Deauvin and Val Royeaux, now of no house and no land except the road. The former lord had himself shared his story, but without much detail or passion. Except perhaps when the agent of his fall was to be described, which turned his voice thick and his words into poetry. This was only to be expected from a man in love, but perhaps not from one in hate. Anyway, the lack of detail in the former lord Deauvin's story almost appeared a crime when the plot itself showed such promise. The bard, who loved stories, had decided to remedy this.

She summoned up the shape of Celon Deauvin in her mind. It was not a handsome man. The skull was deformed, a small jaw, high but sloping cheekbones. The top of the head appeared too large for the lower part, and was covered with short dark hair like that of a boar. Almost as in decoration, the face was covered by boils and swellings, the small glimmering eyes watching from sunken pits. The nose and ears were small, the teeth crooked. As for the rest of him, Lord Celon was no better. Although bent and twisted he was still a large man, and even larger than one might think because of his bad posture. The limbs looked oddly treelike, strong and frail and with a strange symmetry. The left arm was significantly longer than the right, even though not obviously so. It was not a handsome man. It was a hideous man. Like all the Deauvins.

The bard considered her story. For a moment she, a Seeker of Truth, had a bout of guilty conscience; could this be considered lying? She pushed it out of her mind as she had so many times before. Certainly the Maker approved of spreading happiness and beauty. Besides, she was doing so much good work that He certainly would forgive her this little sin. She dug through her pouch for her pen and paper.

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I am dying. The snow weighs me down, the cold even more so. There is no light or sound though I know a storm is raging. I cannot move, not even a finger. The strength of my arms which once could break bones and wield the greatsword like lesser men could wield a dagger does not hear me, and neither does the legs that carried me from rose-scenting Val Royeaux to these mountains, the roof of the world. But my mind is clear in a way it has not been for a long time.

I do not fear death. Life is nothing to me now. Since that when day I met _her_ I have lost everything. Honour, position, wealth, land, title, family and friends. Not that I had much of the last two. My thoughts wander to that fateful day; in a neat little town they call Val Royeaux.


	2. Chapter 2

It was at a tourney, thrown by some lord or another. Not a very impressive one but I had decided to compete anyway. Most appropriately for that which was to come it was the last day of warmth expected that year. The lordlings had finished the joust and the melee had begun. I had just finished my first challenge of the day, some pretty-face I had bludgeoned half to death with the blunted two-hander, and had turned around to leave when I first heard her voice. It did not sound like a harbinger of doom.

"-Lord Deuvin, please do me the honour to carry this, my token, during the day's contests. May it give you fortune and may you wear it with honour."

And curse me, I took it. It was more of a reflex rather than a conscious decision, I mumbled a crude "thanks" and kept on walking back to the tent, never really having stopped at all. I barely looked at the giver of the token or enquired for her name, (for it was a her), and my simple "thanks" was laughably brutish by the standards of Val Royeaux. I could sense rather than hear the tittering nobles. I knew they were exchanging looks of mirth, delight, contempt and surprise with one another. My vision already hampered by my visor, I went almost blind with rage. _Fool_, I thought.

Once returned to my pavilion, I removed my helmet and gazed at my own reflection. The tent was mercifully dark and I did not have to look upon my foe. The elven servants watched me cautiously, uncertain of my will and mood. I grumbled the two words "chair" and "water" and received them. I was seated before the mirror. The servants turned it away from me, knowing that I did not care for what I saw. Nonetheless it annoyed me. Still, I had other advantages than beauty. I was a giant, rarely meeting someone who came close to matching me in height and never one who exceeded it. The body's shape though was ironically dwarven, broad-chested and powerful. I had occasionally been called "the world's largest dwarf". I did not find it amusing.

I leant back on the chair and gathered my thoughts. I raised my mailed fist and looked at the token, which I still clutched inside it.

"-Light", I grumbled, and there was light. It was a black velvet band, simple and without decoration. It looked soft but I could not feel it through the glove. I enjoyed its beauty, its simplicity and the contrast the soft fabric made with my steel-clad hand. It was an unusual piece, colour and lavish decoration is otherwise the rule in Val Royeaux.

Why had she given it to me? I was a Deauvin, not some gallant chevalier. I saw three possibilities. 1. She mistook herself due to me being covered in armor. 2. She was poor and was desperate for my gold. 3. It was part of _the game_. Being difficult to mistake for someone else and possessing little gold I judged the third option most likely, someone had sought to humiliate her by tricking her to show me her favour, or it was she who had sought to humiliate me. We Deauvins had always stayed out of the game. At least we had tried. Bah. It did not matter. I would be of no more amusement to anyone. When it was time for my next round I would walk out - without the ribbon.

When the time came I exited the darkness of my tent. As I walked to the field of contest my eyes were burnt by the sunlight. As my eyes adjusted I looked around. I did not see much worth noticing. The quadratic field of contest was covered by sand and surrounded by a wooden fence painted gold. Around it were raised galleries where brightly dressed lords and ladies ate, drank and conversed in a polite and sophisticated manner. Always polite and sophisticated. Bright colours and masks everywhere. Elven servants were discretely positioned with wine, parasols and fans. A blue sky and a smiling sun. The sun's smile was as false as those of the nobles, it would soon drench me in sweat. I did not look for the giver of the token.

By the standards of Val Royeaux it was a very modest event indeed, a petty celebration for a petty event I do not remember. I had only accepted the invitation to bash something. The same reason the invitation had been extended in the first place.

The bout itself was pathetically short. I outclassed the contestants of this tournament anyway. My opponent struck, I parried, I reposted, he fell, I turned to leave. It was then I first saw her. Hair the same colour as the velvet band, a simple long dress of the same colour, richly but elegantly decorated with silver. A sharply cut chin and a proud bearing, tall and svelte. She was now sitting in the grandstand with the most respected guests, the only one of them who seemed to be truly oblivious to the heat and not only faking it. A small mask covered the area around her eyes. Her hair hung over her shoulders, once tied up with a black velvet band. Around her sat half a legion of handsome young nobles. She looked straight at me and I met her eyes. They shone like diamonds. And may Andraste be my witness, from that moment forth my will was no longer my own. My mind was burning, its roaring deafening and its light blinding.

How I got back to my tent I do not remember, there might have been some problems with that, perhaps I had just stood there and stared at her until dragged away. Back in the tent I paced around in fury, muttering and cursing. My servants were much intimidated. I wondered how I could have been such a fool. How could I not carry her token, how could I insult her so? Surely she must hate me. The thought filled me with anguish. Where was the token? Where!? I cursed the servants and came close to beating them. Perhaps closer than close, I cannot say. Then I received the velvet band once again, and failing to tie it myself due to my plated gloves I had the servants to attach it to my right arm. Until the next bout I lived in fear that too tight a knot might damage the cloth or a too loose one cause it to fall off.

How odd this seems when I think about it now. At the time I had no self-consciousness, I had only one goal, one ill-defined and confused purpose to my existence, to see and to be seen by her again, perhaps even to meet her gaze if I was only worthy. Now, the fire quenched by the snow, I recall these memories as for the first time. As if I had not been there myself.

When they once again called me forth I immediately searched the grandstand for the goddess. And once again our eyes met. And she smiled! She must have noticed that I wore the black velvet band, the most sacred object in the world, and it pleased her. I swatted my opponent like a fly.

And so the day progressed. Before each round I was called from the tent, I searched for the lady and met her eyes, then I crushed my opponent and went back my pavilion. I had been confident of winning even before, but now I was unstoppable. No-one could stand against me. Yet I was barely paying any attention to the fights, I had no plan to gain her favour or impress her, I had no thought at all. I did not think of what would happen when she saw my face, I did not ever try to extend a fight to stay in her presence, and all prudent suspicion was gone. Thus the contest proceeded until a winner was declared, which must have been me, although I do not remember.

And then - confusion. The tourney was over, the sun was setting, the nobles leaving for other entertainment. But what was I to do now? I looked for her in the grandstand, but it was empty. I furiously moved and searched among the nobles leaving the scene, not bothering to remove my armour. Then, as sudden as the appearance of a rainbow or that of a sunbeam breaking through a cloudy sky, I found her and was once again standing in the light of her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

She were sitting in a large palanquin with two nobles and a lady from the grandstand, while carriers held the palanquin aloof. In retrospect, the carriers were clearly struggling with the weight of their heavy load and its noble contents. A fashionable dozen or so Riviani elven mercenaries armed with short swords were present. My lady smiled at me, but her companions looked as if they were seriously doubting their friend's sanity. But what did I care about them?

"-Ah, well here is my mighty champion! Truly, you were magnificent, just like in the stories! Don't you think so to, Gascard?" She said in a coquettish and delighted manner. "Gascard" was a young nobleman, thin with a prematurely furrowed face. He wore no mask. The man looked at me coldly while still smiling politely, and spoke:

"-Indeed, indeed, never have we seen such... zeal since the days of Orgon!" A not entirely flattering comparison. The lord continued: "And forgive us, where are our manners? Let us introduce ourselves. I am Gascard, by blood of the Beyois, by land of Val Royeaux. And, my dear lord, what may yours be? Raise you visor and let us look upon your face." He knew very well who I were, and it was because of that he asked me to reveal my face. Unfortunately, there was no polite way to refuse him. I was paralyzed. As clouded as my mind was, I now remembered who I were: Celon, by blood of the Deuvins, by land of Val Royeaux - and a monster whose face made Darkspawn run for their mothers.

"-Ah, you are such a fool Gascard! Don't you know that this is Celon, by blood of the Deuvins, by land of Val Royeaux? We have just spent the entire afternoon watching fight in the tourney, his name called out before every bout, how can you have missed that?" I was saved. "Rather it is I who should introduce myself. I am Morgan, by blood of the Fay, by land of Fay." Gascard did not look pleased, but Morgan of Fay took no notice of him: "But this is no way to chat, my champion, please, come join us here in the palanquin."

I obeyed request as if it had been a divine command from Andraste herself. Unfortunately perhaps, since when I jumped up and tried to heave myself into the carriage the not insignificant added weight proved to much for the carriers - they dropped it! Of all the storms of emotion to strike me this day this was the worst. Had I hurt the Beloved? Had I killed her? In the brief ensuing chaos of wood, cloth and people I desperately searched for her, kicking people out of the way and tearing at the cloth that covered palanquin. The silk floated in the wind like smoke. The scene could only have lasted a few seconds, before I heard that beautiful, pearly laughter:

"-Oh, my, _that_ was not supposed to happen!" I turned towards the sound. She stood there, smiling at the chaos and apparently unscathed. The others were just now getting to their feet. No one appeared hurt. The eyes of the noble were as dark as obsidian and he opened his mouth to speak, but my lady of Fay interrupted him: "Please, do not be angry, it was just a silly mistake. Carriers, get the sedan ready again, would you kindly. Unfortunately it does not appear to be big enough for all of us Gascard, so you and your friends will have to stay here". Even the carriers seemed shocked at this snub. Gascard's face turned ashen and the two other nobles were outraged, even more so when Gascard answered: "Your wish, my lady."

To treat nobles like this was unheard of, and such a response to such an insult was even more so. The expected response would have been to swear eternal enmity between their respective families, and perhaps not even bothering to do so politely. I soon found myself sitting in the dusk of the covered sedan, facing the goddess.

The carriers picked up the sedan and started their march back to the city centre. The thin silks cast shadows that writhe like serpents. We looked at each other and she smiled. How come I did not see the betrayal in those eyes at the time, when I see it so clearly now, through the distance of time?

"-Now, will you not remove your helmet, my lord? I have heard that your face is the toast of Val Royeaux." She spoke lightly, as in jest, but I trembled. Yet there was no way to avoid it. I removed my helmet. She looked at me for several moments.

"-It is certainly an ugly face. But I like it. It is certainly not common." She spoke as lightly as ever. "Yet I am rather disappointed. I was told that you could rout armies with a glance, but I doubt that you could even make a single regiment turn tail. Tell me, why are you the way you are? Please, I am very curious."

I answered that all Deauvins had been like me. No one knew why. It had always been so. I was the last. She pressed the question and I could not refuse her, words came pouring out of my mouth.

The Deauvins are an ancient house, stretching back into the mists of time. We hail from the rocky flatlands that still bear our name in the southwest. The early stories tell of war, war with tribes and cheiftains, the Tevinters, the Darkspawn, the Alamarri, the Chasind the Avars, the Orlesians, the Fereldans, the Elves and above all ourselves. The stories tell of bitterness and bloodshed, treachery and vengeance, great triumphs and even greater tragedies. A penchant for being on the losing side and a surly stubbornness was always ours, but where our deformed shells came from no one knows. The legends are as many as they are contradictory. They only thing they seem to agree about is that it was caused by our sins, but that does not narrow it down much. Perhaps we followed the magisters to the Golden City, perhaps because we betrayed the pledge of unity during the Blight, perhaps because we bathed in the blood of Halamshiral. Either way our tale is one of tragedy. We appear to have survived only to keep suffering, shuffling from defeat to defeat. Today I am the last, and thank the Maker, our torment will soon be at an end.

"-Gosh, you are a gloomy one are you not? You poor thing, I really shouldn't have asked. Can you ever forgive me?" I was more than ready to. Then we spoke of things high and low, great and small. Politics, history, art and poetry, the uselessness of elven servants, even fashion. She kept me talking, me who had once spent a week in silence only to find that no one noticed the difference. I told her things I had not even told myself.

"-You mentioned Halamshiral. Were your ancestors there too?" I confessed they were. Some accuse my ancestor Lord Orgon Deauvin for provoking the war by raiding into the Dales. During the war the elves besieged him for many years in his fortress but failed to take it. When Chantry and Orlesians struck back he joined in the counterattack. Supposedly, elven women and children had gathered in a great temple in Halamshiral, believing that their gods would open a strange portal that would take them to safety. Orgon slaughtered them.

"-What a jolly fellow. But how about the portal, what happened to it?" I see now, clearly. This was the question she had wanted to ask all along. Why did I not see it then? I answered that it was a mirror or sorts, an "Eluvian." My ancestor smashed it. He kept a shard of it though, and it was fitted with a handle making a dagger out of it. We still had it. I knew it well, actually. As a child I remember often staring into its surface and seeing... strange things. Some say it was the breaking of this mirror that caused – she interrupted me.

"-May I see it?" Her tone was no longer light and gay. Here if anywhere I should have seen that something was amiss. Instead, elated to be able to do my lady a favor, I cried to the carriers to take us to the Deauvin estate. I did not give a thought as to why she would like to see a broken piece or mirror glass. The estate was not far away. On our way there we discussed elven history and artifacts, a subject I was not unversed in. I told her that my great-great-great grandfather had been a devoted collector of elven lore and items. We had vast halls under the estates packed with spindly elegant chairs, lockers, tables, weapons and suits of armor of heartwood, ornaments and statues of stone and silver, books and scrolls and moth-eaten cloth and clothes. This despite my collector ancestors final fit of rage when he had smashed half of it before his heart burst and he died.

Suddenly I remembered myself, and asked her about herself. This small politeness must have been the only act of calculation my clouded mind produced in this whole affair. Until now we had only spoken about me. I asked her from whence she came, about her family. She answered that Fay was a small town in a small corner of the Empire, huddled along the Frostbacks on the border to Ferelden. I knew the area. Just a year ago I had studied it, planning on crossing into Ferelden by way of the smuggling routes to fight the Darkspawn. It had seemed like a good idea. With the end of the Darkspawn threat I had abandoned the plan. I told her as much and she changed the subject.


	4. Chapter 4

The Deauvin estate was still one of the most beautiful in Val Royeaux. Built in the Tower Age, it seemed almost to hover on thin pillars and gentle arches. Spires of the Nevarran fashion stretch longingly for the sky, covered in stone flowers and creatures reminiscent of ancient Tevinter. Age and lack of funds had cracked the stone, serving as holds for greenery and roses. The buildmaster was a Deauvin himself. The obvious joke was that the ugliest resident of the city lived in its most beautiful residence. My lady of Fay repeats this jest, and for the first time I laughed at it. I told her that many of my family have had a secret love for beauty, like my ancestor the architect, my father with his music or me with my poetry.

As we crossed the yard I glanced up to the window from which my father had finally thrown my mother out of, before jumping after her himself.

I called for the servants to find the key to the cellar, but none answered. I had few sevants and the estate was large. I furiously tore down the door, bid her wait, and ran for a torch. All the time she smiled slightly. Finally I found a torch.

We entered through the broken doorway and made our way down the stairs. The steps were steep and irregular. None of the beauty of the estate was present there. She leaned on my arm for support. The ceiling was not high, I had to bow my head slightly and hold the torch low. Cobwebs burnt like falling stars when the flame touched them. I knew the cellars well, I had spent much of my boyhood hiding here, hunting and killing rats for sport. The darkness covered my face and afforded shelter from the other children, whose tongues, cruel eyes and laughter my brawn was no match for.

We walked past the collected rubbish of centuries, hidden in adjacent rooms and corridors. Little of it was classified or in any kind of order. Once I had found the bones of a child stashed away in a cupboard, I know not who it was or why or when it came to rest there. Perhaps a previous young explorer had fallen to missfortune, or had just decided to stay in the quiet solitude. I never told anyone about it.

The elven room, as I called it, had long been one of my favorites. Beautiful and curious objects were stored therein. It was one of the few rooms with a semblance of order, objects were neatly stacked to avoid damage and none on top of each other. Crates lined the walls containing further items. The room had sparked an interest in elven culture, in the way of a layman at least.

The dagger still lay where it always had, in the offering bowl of a sizeable and glaring idol, Fen'harel the Dread Wolf. I remembered it well from my explorations of the room, all I had to do was to look at the deep scar across four fingers of my left hand to remind me. It was unnaturally sharp, by its own insignificant weight alone it had dug into my hand. The fragment was about the length of two hands and of an irregular shape. It looked brittle but I knew that it was strong. Its colour was of a deep but reflective black that had seemed to just drink my blood all those years ago. That it was the shard of a mirror would not have been one's first guess if not for the small note tied to the handle saying just so, but when one possessed that information it was not hard to see. I recall looking into the heart of the dagger, almost seeing _something_, I know not what.

I picked it up and gave it to her, warning her of its sharp edge. She stared intently at the blade, sliding her fingers over it. She was pleased. Then everything happened so quickly, though it must have been hours. She asked about a book of elven lore, a very specific book. We searched for it, and for a moment believed we had found it. But her restrained excitement turned to disappointment as she found it incomplete and abridged. She asked were an intact copy could be found. We searched through the papers, until I found my ancestors notes on the subject – one of the Dalish clans of Ferelden possessed the original, passed down for generations. I gave her the note. Not until then did I ask the obvious question:

"-Morgan of Fay, what is the meaning of this? She just smiled her smile, walked up to me, stood on the top of her toes and placed a small kiss on my cheek.

The kiss struck me like a velvet sledgehammer, and I remember no more.


	5. Chapter 5

I woke up I know not how long afterwards. Every joint in my body howled in agony. I soon found that I was covered in sick, lines of dried blood drawn from my nose, mouth, ears and eyes. I was lying on the cold and dusty stone floor. It was pitch black, no torch to light my way. And curse my folly - all I could think of was whether she were safe!

I cried her name and fumbled through the darkness. With effort I struggled to my feet. My memory guided me flawlessly towards the exit. I crawled on all fours up the stairs. If I had better sense I would have died in those dungeons, keeping that long dead child company.

I stepped out into the dawn. The shadows were still long and dark across the courtyard. Said shadows belonged to a company of soldiers in the livery of house Beyois and the elven mercenaries I had seen before. Amongst them stood Lord Giscard and Morgan of Fay. In her arms she cradled a bundle, an infant child. They all turned to look at me as I staggered up from the cellar and collapsed to my knees before them. The woman and the babe both looked at me with the same cold imperious gaze. What an unnatural thing in a child! A moment passed.

"-I thought he were dead, my lady." It was Giscard who spoke.

"-So did I, ser." She looked at me passively.

"-Then I will see to it."

"-No, my lord." She spoke quickly. "He must stand trial for his crimes." Giscard stopped between two steps, suprised.

"-What cri...?" He began but was again interrupted.

"-The reason we came here, to expose his treachery to Empress Celene, of course."

Ah! For the first time I see the scene clearly, as if it was now I knelt there! It was not mercy or love, and certainly not concern for the course of justice that made her speak. It was the fact that fifty tongues and fifty ears cannot be trusted, even if they are attached to your own men. At the time I knew nothing but my love for her, truly, even then did I not quite realise her betrayal. The black velvet band was still tied to my shoulder.


	6. Chapter 6

And neither did I after a week of hammering on the door of a dungeon. Even now those memories have not returned to me. All I see of it is darkness, and not the safe, sheltering nothingness of the vaults below the estate.

"-Lord Deauvin, how do you plead to these charges?" These were the first words I recall. I stood before the High Tribunal and the indifferent judge spoke to me. I answered only with questions: "Where is she? Where!?" Soon they sent me away again. It is here that my story begins anew. On my way out of the court I ran into Gascard. He smiled amiably:

"-Lord Celon Deauvin, my dear friend, how do you do? I can see that your new quarters agree with you, so does mine I might add. Did you know that the architect of your estate was also involved in the building of the Grand Cathedral? Marvelous man, I truly appreciate his work." I lunged at him, slamming him against the wall. "Where is she? Where is Morgan?!" Our eyes met briefly before the rain of blows from the guards brought me low. That night I broke free, with some unlikely assistance.

The door of my prison was too thick for me to hear even the clatter four men in armor made. The door suddenly open, the light of their torches blinding me. I got to my feet while I shielded my eyes. They stepped in. Three of them wore the the Beyois seals, the fourth was obviously the young Lord himself. He wore the black velvet band tied around his arm. His eyes burnt brighter than the torches.

"-You swine, you degenerate beast! How dare you lay hands on me? Don't you know _I am a Beyois_?! His face flushed with anger and mortification. In normal circumstances I would have chuckled at his anger, my eyes unsmiling, and reminded him that his house was a mere one-hundred-and-fifty years old, that the Deauvins were old when the Beyois were young. But this was not normal circumstances. My mind gone, I only asked him where the Lady of Fay could be found.

"-You sorry sap! The beauty and the beast in truth! Is it revenge you want, or another kiss? Worry about me instead, I will break every bone in that carcass you call your body." In this case "I" evidently meant "we". They closed the door and advanced on me with clubs. Once again I lunged. I twisted a mace out of a guardsman's grip, and squeezed out an eye with my thumb. A shame for such a young and handsome face. I dodged a blow, parried one and felled another guardsman. Gascard had pulled his dagger. He looked as if he wished he had brought his sword. I soon rammed the final guardsman into the wall, knocking him out. Then we were alone. I repeated my question.

"-To hell with you!"

He fought well but was no match for me. I struck him over the shoulder, pushed him to the floor and grabbed his knife hand. I crushed it. To his credit he did not make a sound, but his face flushed with pain and anger. I carefully untied the velvet token and took it. Then I repeated my question. He repeated his answer. I broke his other had and asked again. This time he cried out, but still the same answer. Then I heard a noise behind me. I swung around just in time to stop the one-eyed guard from slitting my throat. Giscard too threw himself at me but I easily overpowered the two cripples. I raised my mace to finish Ser One-Eye.

"-Wait! Don't hurt him!" It was Gascard who spoke. I repeated my question. He repeated his answer. I then took a sturdy grip on One-Eyes ear and tore it off. A cry of pain and a cry of rage echoed of the dungeon walls. Where. Is. She.

"-She left the city. Just hours ago, by the southern gate. She brought her elves and her bastard with her. I think she's heading for Ferelden, that's where she came from." He cursed me again. "You do not stand a chance. She is a mage, and the knife-ears..."

I tore the ribbon from his shoulder and threw myself out the door, not even bothering to close and bolt it though it would have been a simple matter.

How strange is not the obsessed mind. As I now look back on it I see these events as for the first time, as if I had not been there myself. All that mattered was to be near her. Her betrayal, her child, whom she were or why she had acted as she had or the fact that she were a mage, these questions never crossed my mind. Neither did strategy. Why did I not keep torturing him for more information, for answers? Why did I let him live, or at least why did I not bolt the door behind me? I now realise obvious things, such as that she had a Fereldan accent which she struggled to hide and that here manners were far removed from those of an Orlesian lady. Why did I bring the ribbon? And how come that I could not catch up to her in the chase that now followed?


	7. Chapter 7

How I escaped from the prison seems a miracle now. I simply ran in the direction I thought the exit was, swiftly clubbing every guard I met. But out I made it, though the bells started ringing the moment I clambered over the walls. I kept running, still wearing the thin shirt I had under my armor when I had been arrested. I bolted into the streets and ran in the general direction of the southern highway. I quickly found myself in the poorer quarters where streets were so narrow and twisting that I soon had little idea where I were. Various night dwellers, thieves, cutthroats and whores, were out but none felt any pressing need to bother a passing wild-eyed ogre possessing only a thin shirt and a mace.

I met no patrolling guardsmen and I saw no hint of pursuit. I soon reached the main road south, and the stables that conveniently lined it. I kicked one of its doors open. The horses grew immediately skittish at my appearance, as they always do. I picked the finest horse (which was still not particularly fine), saddled it and beat it into submission. By then the stables owner had arrived but he elected not to intervene.

I set of in the direction of the south. Just before dawn the horse collapsed. I started running and soon reached a village. There I stole another horse, and rode that one until it too collapsed. The landscape moved past quickly. It is amazing what speeds you can get out of even a second rate horse if you only intend to use it once.

I was just to repeat the procedure yet another time when a small group of farmers barred my way. They waved at me to stop. I was about to run them over when my clouded mind suddenly decided to ask them for information regarding my heart's desire. As I reined in my horse it stopped and staggered, and then collapsed as well. The peasants were obviously frightened at my appearance and entrance, their reason for waving me in forgotten.

"-Smelly peasants! I command you to tell me if you have seen a beautiful dark-haired woman accompanied by a dozen elves pass by here!" The stupid serfs gaped at me as they are like to do. Then they remembered themselves and fell to their knees.

"-Ser, forgive us. We have not seen a woman, but we found elves, ser, in the clearing over there. They are all dead, my lord!" I did not bother to try to glean more information out of them. I now knew I was on the right track. I continued on foot, a small farmstead was not far away. There I found nothing but an old nag. She lasted a surprising amount of time before she too collapsed.

I followed the coast road, much smaller and less populated than the Imperial Highway. Time, distance and horses passed swiftly. I do not know for how long I traveled, the days and nights passed into each other. How I could travel as I did I do not know. I ate precious little, and when I slept I did so in the saddle and dreamt of riding. I do not know if anyone has ever crossed the empire as swiftly as I did. Yet – I did not catch her. I stopped only to ask travelers, generally while I stole their horses, if they had seen my quarry. Only once did I get an answer, outside of Verchiel. A stableboy had seen a woman fitting my Lady's description, carrying an infant child, quietly strolling through the woods. He had thought her a witch of the wilds out getting herself some dinner, and hid.

The scant trail did not bother me. I could claim that I knew where she was going, only a few passes over the Frostbacks were in existence, and since she would want to avoid detection that narrowed it down even more. In addition, she were the Lady of Fay, the very place I had a year ago planned on passing over into Ferelden during the blight. But that was not the cause of my confidence. I could _sense_ her. I do not know how. I simply knew I was on the right path.

Many horses later I had passed Verchiel and Lydes. The lands I passed were knee deep in the history and blood of the Deauvins. Raiding from the south we had made these lands unsafe for hundreds of years. I passed the place where Badgift had earned his name by offereing up his fathers head as a gift to the Tevinter magisters to buy time for another rebellion, and the hill where the princes of the south, but the Deauvins, had bent the knee before Emperor Drakon. Later I too passed the hill where the Deauvins had bowed before the same emperor and his Maker for the fourth and final time.

Before Halamshiral she turned south, for Fay, and I followed. The land grew harsher as we passed into the foothills of the Frostbacks and the highlands of the Dales, and so did the people. Horses and farms grew scarce, and the peasants kept fighting back even after being told I was a noble. I ran on bleeding unshod feet towards Fay. I had not bothered to appropriate a set of clothes during the journey, and winter was coming early to these mountains. In the high passes the snow barely melt during the summer, and by the time it did winter was not far away.

Fay was a small town, more like a village, consisting of cottages and shacks. The mountains vistas surrounding it were supposedly stunning but I paid no attention to them. Birches, stunted by the conditions, were plentiful even inside the city itself. I asked for the closest stable master. I got directions. The locals watched me with suspicion, but strangely enough without fear. Perhaps even hostility. Groups of idle and armed men and dwarves, lyrium smugglers, followed me with their eyes.

I reached the stable, outside of which sat a young boy. Maybe ten years of age. As I approached he suddenly noticed me.

"-Sirrah! Ye sure are uglee, eh!" The locals spoke a crude Orlesian, almost like Fereldans. Not being overly impressed by his undoubtedly acute observation, I went past him to steal one of his charges.

"-The bloofer lady said ye would steal my mules, eh. Thas's not needed sirrah, cuz' she already paid for it. Ye can take whichever ye want, eh. And a saddle too." These words halted me.

"-She says she be waiting for ye up by Slagpit Pass. But I wouldn't go if I were ye. There's already snow up there, and me father says more will come soon. If ye get stuck ye'll die and we'll not find ye 'til spring. I told her so too but she wouldna' listen."


	8. Chapter 8

I slowly rode up the mountainside. Now that I knew that she was waiting for me it seemed as if my travails had suddenly decided to collect what I owed them. Snow appeared only a few minutes from the town, and not long after that, glaciers. The ground rose steeply. Night fell, and it was cold. By the crack of dawn I found a small pond covered by crystal clear ice in which I were greeted by my own ravaged visage. It was as hideous as ever. All my bulk was gone, my deformed and twisted bones covered in by what I assume must have been skin. I was clad only in the thin, torn and frayed shirt I had escaped in. I stooped and looked into my sunken eyes. When had I last had something to eat and drink? Some sleep? I did not even know how many days, or horses, had passed since I left Val Royeaux. I stumbled off the mule, knelt by the pond and drank some of the water. Perhaps it was there by that pond that I regained some of my sanity. To the south I could see a wall of white, higher than the tallest mountain, blowing towards me. Then I rose and mounted once more.

This was not three hours ago.

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I climbed the next ridge and looked out over a large and flat snow covered area. Slagpit Pass was an artificial construction. In ages past, the dwarves had selected a valley for the excess stone of their mining. Over time, a lot of time, they had filled the entire valley and moved on. This giant slag pit did however create a way to cross otherwise inaccessible mountains. I looked out over the landscape. I looked flat but I knew this was because it was covered with snow. Supposedly there were places where a mule could pass over it, but I knew not where. I dismounted and started walking.

I could see the other side where the mountains begun again. It was not far. The trek across the slag pit was difficult, sometimes in one step I walked on solid stone, in the next I sank into snow up to my armpits. The cold cut into my exposed skin like a knife. But I knew that my journey was approaching its end. I could_ feel_ it. As I rose from another fall I could see the steep incline where the mountains once again began. At the top of that incline I saw a lone tall figure standing.


	9. Chapter 9

I approached across the rock, snow and ice. I reached the foot of the rise, and looked up. Need I tell you who looked down upon me? She now wore some sorts of shirt that left her arms and sides bare, her hair was no longer falling down her shoulders. In her arms she held the child. Neither one of them seemed affected by the cold.

They looked at me. The child with the same unnatural grave majesty, but perhaps also curiosity. As for the woman, her eyes shone like diamonds. She looked amused, and curious too. A smile that looked almost benign played across her lips.

"-Well, well, what have we here? I thought I told you that I did not wish to be followed. Perhaps I forgot." I stared dumbly back at her. Snow gently started falling.

"-What is it that you want?" I did not give an answer, though she waited for one.

"-You have traveled far. I am quite impressed. Surely you must have a reason? Is it revenge? Honor? Answers? Perhaps love?" She smiled at her last suggestion. I did not know what to answer. Truly, I had never asked myself these questions. So I answered honestly.

"-I do not know."

"-You do not know." She repeated. "Then may I suggest that you think of an answer, for I do not care to wait much longer."

"-You betrayed me."

"-I am very sorry." She spoke as if she apologised out of politeness, for a minor inconvenience. Once again we waited in silence. The child stared at me as gravely as ever. Finally she spoke once more.

"-Very well then. Fare thee well. I would warn you not to keep following me, but I do not think that will be necessary. You look unwell, Lord Deauvin, and there is a storm coming. I barely recognized you, and you are, if you will forgive me, by far the most recognizable person I have ever had the pleasure to meet." With those words she turned and walked away. I sat down. The snow slowly covered me.

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This is where my story ends, and with me the story of the Deauvins. Betrayed and forgotten by all, to leave no trace that we once walked the earth. At least my mind is clear, and I see the folly of my actions. I still do not know whether it was love or hate that drove me, it does not matter. Nothing remains to be done. I do not wish to follow her, and I do not wish to go back. Not that I could if I would. My body and soul are broken. I have nothing more to give. Time to die.

I feel something soft in my hand. It is the black velvet band. For the first time since my escape I become aware that I still clutch it in my fist. Then I died.

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""Then I died." What kind of an ending is that?" thought Leliana. She would have to work on that one. Besides, how many stories told in first person ends with the death of the subject\storyteller? There sure remained some work to be done, but she had the framework here. Was this really a worthy ending for the Most Ancient and Terrible House Deauvin? Something more conclusive might also be good. How about pointing out the fact that though Lord Deauvin had crossed the empire at an impossible pace, that Morrigan had done the same, and even faster? Yes, that would…

The red-haired bard heard footsteps and twigs snapping through the darkness and the silence. The others were evidently returning, walking as to alert her of their return. The present called for her attention.

Four shapes stepped into the clearing. One was giant in shape, the silhouette twisted like an old tree. An absurdly oversized sword of elven make hung across the shape's back. It spoke with a surprisingly thin voice:

"-Another dead end. No sign of either my witch or your warden. I guess that means you will be leaving for Kirkwall, Seeker?"


End file.
